fictionissue17 – Page 2 – The Quarry Journal

Touched, Kimberley Carter

When was the last time you dreamed in any colour other than gold? You wish there was a dial or perhaps a valve that you could use to drain the world of that particular metallic hue. Maybe then, the world would return to the way it was before.

You find the memories from the time before especially difficult to keep straight. Memories are strange. They are never straight forward. They are like quantum particles that when observed, change direction. One afternoon, after a bland and tasteless lunch, you sit your children down in the dining room and do your best to explain to them the beginning and the before. You fumble a lot, lose your place and ramble. Your voice is muffled through your mask and your hands are sweaty beneath your gloves. You find there is no real place to start, no way to explain these things clearly to children who only know the after. Somehow, this seems important though. These are things they can only experience if you tell them.

You try and begin with a simpler time. You describe in vivid detail crowded concert halls where your head gets jammed in a rockers damp, un-pruned armpit. You tell them about hugging friends in greeting and kissing strangers, and travelling. Travelling! To them, it’s a foreign concept. Communities are now so small. They are closed off, locked and barred. The only good stranger now is a familiar one. The children make faces at you. They are still young.

Somewhere along the way, you tell them about a girl. You think her name was Amelia. Or maybe it was Emma. It is hard to know. You only met her once. You were a pharmacy assistant at the time. Young, fresh and roped into doing the job that no one wanted. You don’t remember the house being anything special. The weeds were stretching tall in their stolen beds and the grass was high as a wheat field. So high it almost obscured the hastily erected sign out front. It read, ‘Caution: Quarantine Zone. PPE must be worn at all times.’ Already, even then, that sign was familiar.

You knocked on the door and when there was no response, you knocked again. You must not be knocking loud enough, you thought. You call out instead.

‘I’m from the pharmacy,’ you say, ‘I’m delivering your medication.’

You don’t forget what she looks like when she opens the door. You describe her to your children as hunched and small. Her pyjamas are old and filthy. Her hair is matted and oily, she is like an underfed lion hiding in the wheat field waiting to pounce. Her eye bags are like new moons, carving circles into her cheekbones. Your children ask what was wrong with her. ‘This is what loneliness looks like,’ you answer.

She slides the cash under the fly-screen and tells you to keep the change. You think you see her in your newsfeed, months later. Or maybe you didn’t.

Your children ask you ‘What is cash?’. You take them to a dusty unused corner of the house and pull out an old box hidden among the shelves. Inside, carefully filed, named and catalogued, are notes and coins. You make them sanitise before and after touching them. After all, cash is now a dirty collectable.

You are glad they are showing interest. You are glad they are asking questions. Questions are good. Questions are better than blank stares and obvious fidgets. You decide to tell them how it started. That the first spark was a man in the media; a shaky video that most people discounted as fake. But a fake virus does not multiply the way this one did.

You are losing their interest. You can see it but you cannot stop. Some stories need to be told simply for the sanity of the speaker. This is what you tell them, you say: Imagine your senses being flooded every hour, every day with news of this new virus. Look at all the pictures of brightly coloured microorganisms spiked like maces. Listen to the ever-growing list of people posting videos about how they feel, what they’ve been through. Read what the government has to say. That it’s contained. That it’s non-threatening. That it’s a naturally caused mutation of a pre-existing virus strand. No one believes it, not even you. How could you? The statistics were bleak. You thought perhaps you were seeing the end. After all, what kind of virus could possible exist that turned people into gold?

The different stages of the virus became predicable once you got used to it. And you did get used to it. Humanity adapts surprisingly quickly to world changing events. You have started sympathising with world war two survivors, you don’t remember when. You picture yourself on par with them, sitting down in the rubble of a train station, listening to the bombs above and saying to one another, ‘How was your day today? Anything exciting happen?’

Your children chime in. They say ‘We know! We know!’ in feigned boredom. Of course they know. There are signs everywhere. In every classroom, in the libraries, in the halls. There’s even a magnet on your fridge written in large red letters ‘Know the symptoms of the Midas Touch. Protect yourself and others.’ Your children may know this but knowing is different to understanding.

You explain anyway. You have to now. You cannot stop. You are winding up the toy, racing towards the punch line. Why is this so hard? The first stage of the virus is the slight yellowy shimmer in the whites of the eyes. Next, the Touched person’s veins change colour, from a deep blue to a rich gold. The worst symptoms, you say, are the invisible ones. The loss of taste, and the stiff limbs that feel like running through water. It’s like the gold has been heated in a furnace than poured into your body shaped mould and left to cool.

You tell them about the great debates over where it came from, whether it was purely spread by touch, about how long it could survive on surfaces and whether the virus was small enough to become airborne. The last stage of course is the golden hue the skin takes. That’s what people will remember, not that most died from their hearts giving in or their lungs collapsing. You were too young to remember SARS or measles. You hope that your children will not remember the Touch but you know you are wrong.

You are afraid you have bored the children. They will no longer sit still. They see the sun glinting through the window and beg for the chance to play. It is already getting late. You are running out of time. You look into their eyes and you find yourself unable to say no. You haven’t told it yet, the most important part. You convince yourself it can wait till tomorrow. You retreat into the half-light of your office. Your mind is full of the things not said.

There is one image that sticks most clearly in your head. This, you do not share with your children. This, you file away like a postcard and every now and then it comes knocking on your skull.

You remember seeing an elderly couple on a park bench, their skin stiff and covered with a golden sheen. They were the first Touched you saw in person. Over the years, you have questioned and wondered and imagined how they died. Who were they? How did they get there? What was the last thoughts running through their gold-riddled minds? You remember it like this:

They are two statues; mannequins dressed in their nicest clothes. The woman is wearing a loose-fitting dress covered in sunflowers. The man is dressed in some stretchy slacks and a blue checkered shirt. In the small space between them their hands are clasped together. They are smiling into each other’s eyes. Those facts never change.

You think maybe one night, the woman notices the dull distant look in her husband’s eyes. Maybe she sees the golden veins creeping up his throat and says to him, ‘let’s go for a walk’. Then she helps him dress. She grabs his cane, his hat and his glasses. She leaves the masks and gloves at home. When she opens the door, she helps him through the threshold. And when he stumbles on the way up the hill, she supports his arm in hers and tells him ‘Your cane! Use your cane!’. They make it to the park that’s little more than a grassy hill. She sits him down to wait for the sunrise. Or is it sunset? No, you are sure it must be sunrise. There is nothing more fitting. The mist coils around their shoes and the dew on the bench seeps through their clothes. She talks to him about anything and everything and always she holds his hand. You imagine the comfort that would have bought the old man. The comfort of physical touch that fades so quickly from memory. The comfort of knowing that someone was there with you, and they weren’t going to let go. You miss the feeling; it nags at you like an ache in your chest or a pressure behind your eyes.

The night then starts to lighten. The mist seems to raise from the ground, briefly bringing the world to life in a glow of pure white. Then the sun starts peeking through. You’ve always thought that sunrise is best; more special. You hope they were watching the sunrise. You hope they managed to see it. You can picture them, sitting on that little bench holding hands as they are bathed in the warmth of a new day.

Did she look into his eyes as he died? Did she cry tears speckled with golden flakes that glittered in the dawn? Did she simply decide not to let go? Did she decide to hold his hand as it stiffened, and wait? Would it have been a relief when her own skin hardened and took on that golden hue; when she lost the ability to move and her thoughts dulled and slowed. Whether it was her heart or her lungs that gave first doesn’t matter to you. Neither does it matter if it was the man or the woman who died first, or the sunrise or the sunset that they watched. The truth lives in their smiles as they stare into each other’s eyes and the clasp of their hands on the bench between them.

You secretly hope no one touched them, that they were given dignity. You hope no one took their clothes or broke their arms off. You wanted them to sit together on that bench overlooking the little grassy park, a frozen moment in time. A tribute. They faced the Touch together and for that they are immortalised, if only in your mind.

The postcard image would come knocking often, especially in the first few months of the pandemic and always while you were at work. Even through the protective barriers, the gloves and the masks, you still saw something of the world. You remember a little girl, maybe around eight. She was wearing tiny pink gloves and a mask with flowers on it. They were a matching set. You saw her wandering the store, not touching a thing. Instead, she amused herself by jumping on the X’s. Every two metres, a bright blue X has been ironed onto the floor. Later, a more permanent solution would replace them. The little girl in pink was too small to jump from one X to the next, so she jumped and shuffled, jumped and shuffled. It occurred to you as you watched her, that this was her normal. Jumping on the X’s will be a part of childhood. Already children were making songs and games to play together using the X’s, and their masks, and the sanitiser their parents drenched them with.

Outside, you can hear your children playing, they pull your mind back to the present. You will not allow them to go further than the yard. The games they play are different to what you had grown up with. Their laughter settles like a heavy sadness in your bones.

You wonder at the changing world. You wonder when you last touched somebody, or saw a stranger’s face, embracing them without paranoia or fear. You wonder when it started feeling wrong to have someone standing behind you in a queue. You wonder when money started feeling dirty and why you didn’t notice it disappearing.

Your head drops to your desk. What is it you are trying to teach them? What is the point about chattering on about the past? You know the answer. But you are afraid. You do not want the past to be forgotten. The air in your office feels stuffy, your throat is tight and dry from talking and your shoulders are slumped. Tomorrow. You will tell them the rest tomorrow. You will say goodbye properly then. You will tell them how much you love them and how much you wish you could hold them.

You decide to go for a walk; a long one, even when you know you shouldn’t. You are surprised at how normal everything looks. At how the wind rustles the trees and sends the grass shivering. At how dogs are unafraid to approach you. You see a man flying a kite that is harnessed to his waist. You watch him for a long while, see how the kite bends and twists, dancing in the air and how the man pulls and strains and desperately spins to keep it airborne. As you walk, the sun begins to set. The sky turns gold. You lie down on the highest hill, ignoring the quiet complaining of your joints. You are so tired. As you lie there, you forget for a moment whether it is sunrise or sunset; whether there is a tomorrow or a yesterday. You thought you would hate the colour gold. Detest it. Despise it. But in this moment with your limbs heavy with liquid gold, the grass vainly pricking your skin and the wind stroking your hair, all you can think is that it’s warm.

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The Showman, Scott Monk

Applause and confetti rained down on the Showman. Thousands and thousands of fans rose to their feet and stood, spellbound, for another five minutes, as he walked to each corner of the stage serving out kisses. Camera phones pop-pop-popped, each reflecting blue light and freezing their owner’s whimsical faces, double chins and yawns. Fathers ushered their families to the aisles with rolled up programmes to beat the traffic, while the majority stayed, half respectfully, half expectantly. Finally, the band riffed and the Showman waved the crowd goodnight.

Backstage, a line formed as the Showman appeared. He pressed hands and smiled for photographs before finally meeting a mother and daughter. His heart sank. The girl, about ten, was shaved bald. Her eyes were defeated and her skin the colour of self-abandonment. The mother was a fusser. No doubt she’d ironed the girl’s clothes, then dragged this poor wretch here, even though the child was clueless about who he was. Now she was prompting her to tell the Showman her story. In detail.

He listened. Patiently, of course. Nodded at the appropriate spots. Caught himself drifting and re-focussed. Was thankful his family wasn’t like theirs.

A female producer with a headset interrupted them and asked to borrow the Showman. The show had to go on.

‘It’s been an honour to meet you,’ the girl said, reaching out to shake the Showman’s hand. Hers was warm but fading.

‘Ask him,’ the mother said, nudging her in the back. ‘What you said to me in the car.’

The Showman looked to his producer and she bent to steer the girl away. ‘Maybe next time.’

‘Ask him,’ the mother insisted.

The girl spoke so softly that she had to repeat herself. ‘What would you say to someone who’s sick like me?’

The Showman glanced down at those surrendered eyes and he felt a flicker of… what?…creeping fear?…mortal insecurity?

‘Believe in yourself, sweetie, and you can overcome anything.’

The producer ushered the pair away, then found the Showman in an editing suite. He was studying the checkerboard of monitors replaying his performance. Cheshire teeth… white. Tonal range… confident. Power dressing… crisp. Make-up?… A tad too orange. ‘Can you lighten my skin tone? We don’t want fifty million viewers thinking I spend all my time in tanning salons. This is one hundred percent Florida!’

The producer cleared her throat. ‘Your ride’s here.’

The Showman glanced at his gold Audemars Piguet timepiece, straightened his silk tie with one quick tug, snapped his bespoke jacket collar then strode in his Louis Vuitton waxed alligators through the rear maze of the stadium.

‘What are the numbers?’ he asked, not breaking stride.

‘Forty.’

He stalled as she handed him the electronic tablet. ‘Four-zero?’

‘Well, thirty-nine with change.’

‘Love offerings?’

‘An extra three.’

‘With change?’

‘No. Flat.’

The Showman’s face glowed as he scrolled through the night’s takings, looking for a mistake – or better yet, an extra zero to carry.

‘Who was on the buckets?’ he asked calmly.

‘Teams D, E and F.’

He slid his hands into his pockets and breathed thinly. ‘Replace them. Put something up on Instagram calling for new volunteers. From now on we always finish with fifty on the books, even if we have to send the buckets around a second time.’

‘Who do you want to –’

‘People with charisma. Women – or even better, young people. Let them be a model to everyone else.’

When the producer raised an eyebrow – just a smidge, but a smidge nonetheless – the Showman softened his tone and shone his immaculate teeth. ‘Look, I know times are tough and everyone is under a lot of pressure, including myself. But we’re doing good work here. World-changing work. You more than most. We just need to pull together and put our best foot forward, and the rewards will come. Don’t you agree?’

Magnanimously, he opened the door, still smiling, then followed her in the loading dock. His face dropped, however, when he saw the black stretch limousine waiting for him.

‘Your driver called in sick,’ the producer said immediately. ‘Appendicitis.’

He held back, then spoke quietly when he pulled her aside. Behind them on the limousine’s hood, sat a rotund Nepalese man in his fifties. He sported a cheap black suit, a bottom-of-the-drawer tie, an orange and pink Dhaka topi on his bald head and a red tilaka between his thick eyebrows. ‘Find another driver with a different car. I can’t go to the airport in that.’

‘We tried. Twice. We even offered to double the fare. But there’re no cars available. All that’s left are taxis…’

The limousine was a peacock on roller skates. The interior discoed with red, blue and green party lights – the kind that turned drunk, snorting passengers into blinking Andy Warhol portraits. Even the number plate danced with small globes, which, mercifully, was simply 2CO R11 and not something horrid like or WATZ UP, GET SUM or I GOTA P. The music system (which he’d asked to turn down) quaked even the surrounding cars, and the air conditioning (which he’d asked to turn up) smelt of cloves and citrus. Factory-made citrus. Worse, the backseats were white leather with a heavy red trim but shaped like the famous giant lips emblem of the Rolling Stones. Want to be swallowed up by Mick Jagger? No thanks.

The Showman had instead chosen the front seat, though now it only added to his distress. Strung along the dashboard were dozens of miniature toys: grinning pigs, pugs, kittens, monkeys, boys, girls, unicorns, pandas, hedgehogs and those ghastly Funko Pops. Most were bobbleheads, and as one, they nodded smugly at the Showman: ‘We know what you’re thinking. Cheerful, eh?’ The only ‘normal’ thing he recognised was the central idol: a statue of the Hindu god Shiva.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ the driver said with a thick accent into his Bluetooth earpiece. On the other end, a woman spoke in a foreign language, his mobile phone listing her as SHE 01. ‘I’ve got the VIP at the moment. The five other passengers can wait.’

He cancelled the call and eased the limousine to a stop at a red light.

‘You spoke very impressive tonight, sir,’ the driver said.

‘Just drive, please,’ the Showman said.

‘I saw the last twenty minute myself. Many people walked away happy.’

The Showman reached for his mobile but the battery signal flashed red.

‘A man like you must be happy all the time,’ the driver added.

‘Not tonight,’ the Showman said, pocketing his phone.

‘You’re a very popular man, am I correct? I’ve seen you on television. Even back home in Kathmandu, you’re on TV.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Whenever I change the channels, I check up on you. Big stadiums. Big crowds. Big rock bands. Lots of people singing. Happy people. I thought: this man brings lots of joy to the world. Must meet him one day. And here you are!’

‘Look, how long is it to the airport? I really need to – ’

‘Twenty minutes. Thirty max. Your jet has filed a new flight plan. Your producer has everything under control. You’re in safe hands with me.’

The light turned green and the limousine powered forward. There was an awkward pause before the silence weighed too much on the driver.

‘So you’re a priest, sir?’

‘A pastor,’ the Showman said.

‘Are they not the same?’

‘A priest dresses in robes and carries out rites. A pastor is…well, he pastors people.’

‘Sir, my apologies. English is only my third language. What does this word mean? Pastors?’

‘It means you care for others. You counsel them and lead them.’

‘Lead them where?’

‘To God.’

‘Oh! Like Hindu priests. They help people find gods too –’

‘No, to God. The one God.’

‘But they believe in Him too.’

‘I don’t think so,’ the Showman said.

‘Yes, yes, they do. Your God is one of the many gods we Hindus believe in. Look!’
The driver singlehandedly dropped open the heavy glove box to reveal dozens of statues of Brahma, Vishnu, Lakshmi, Buddha, Mary, numerous saints, a ceramic beckoning cat and even Thor. Not some metal Norse representation, but the Marvel action figure.

‘I swap them every few hours,’ the driver said, replacing Shiva on the dashboard with the archangel Raphael. ‘When I need patience, I put Buddha up here. When I need protection, I go with a saint. When I need better fares, I put them all up here!’

‘You can’t do that. That’s – That’s blasphemous!’

‘But very, very profitable!’ the driver laughed, slapping the glove box closed.

The limousine continued through the streets, ghosting large crowds of revellers in its headlights. The caller, SHE 01, rang back. The driver’s conversation was curt. ‘We’re on our way, okay? Tell them it’s not the end of the world.’ He chuckled, ending the call.

‘Sir, you are a man of great wealth, no?’

The Showman sighed. Save me, he thought. ‘I get by.’

‘I heard you speaking to that crowd tonight. You said everyone can get happy. How can I get happy?’

‘You won’t understand.’

‘What wouldn’t I understand, sir?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Was it complicated for those people in the stadium tonight?’

The Showman burned. He breathed out then remembered the mantra from his own bestseller: Reward others and you’ll be rewarded.

‘Okay, okay. I’d prefer you come to my church. But it’s a simple secret that’ll change your life.’

‘Why, thank you, sir. Very grateful.’

‘I always encourage people to wake up each day, and to do their best. God is always watching. And when God’s always watching, He’s always expecting. So when you do your part, God will do his part. You following me so far?’

‘Very much, sir.’

‘The problem is, most of us wake up every day thinking we’re not worthy of God’s blessing. We let our emotions tell us we’re not good enough. So we become unhappy. But we are good enough. We’re good people inside. And so we need to live our lives like we’re totally triumphant. God told us to go out and live good lives – and we can only do that if we’re triumphant over our fears and worries, anxiety and pain, poverty and money. He created us to be prosperous, not paupers.’

‘I don’t want to be a pauper, sir.’

‘None of us do. That’s why if we do something good for God, He’ll give it back to us in spades.’

‘Like money?’

‘Money, good health, relationships…you name it. He’ll supply it. He wants you to live in prosperity now.’

‘But how do I do that?’

‘Get a vision for it.’

‘A vision? Like seeing an angel?’

The Showman chuckled. ‘No, friend. Imagine it. Think about what you really want and focus on it. Do everything in your power to make it become real. But most importantly, be generous in your giving.’

‘Giving?’

‘To ministries like mine. God rewards those who reward others.’

The driver changed lanes. ‘So, what you’re saying is: if I want a boat, I should focus on it in my mind, and then give money to you –’

‘– for my ministry to others –’

‘– and then God will reward me with the boat?’

‘Exactly! God wants you to be happy because you are His treasure!’

Expectantly, the Showman glanced at the driver but the man looked perplexed. ‘Sir, forgive me, maybe my English is bad. I’ve read the Bible many times – many times! – and can you tell me where I can find that?’

‘Well…it’s everywhere. I’ve been preaching this for years.’

‘But can you tell me exactly what verses, sir? I’d like to read them myself.’

The Showman reached to Google it, then remembered the flat battery. ‘Trust me. It’s in there,’ he smiled.

‘Forgive me again, sir, but I’m still confused. I’ve read the holy books from all religions, and I’ve written plenty myself, but what about the cross?’

The Showman half-laughed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Why did Jesus die then? To make us wealthy? He was poor Himself, wasn’t he?’
‘Ah, you see, He died to make us happy –’

‘But if you’re poor, then does that mean God doesn’t love you?’

‘That’s a very simplistic view –’

‘And I heard a passenger say the other day that Jesus died on the cross to save us from the wrath of God because we are sinners. I have to say, sir, I felt anything but happy –’

‘Yes but –’

‘We don’t earn eternal life, but it’s given freely. By Christ alone.’

‘Look!’ the Showman said. ‘The Bible’s a very difficult book to understand. You need years of talking about it to understand it. Just trust yourself and your heart will find the truth.’

The limousine paused at another traffic light and silence ticked between both men. Thankfully, the driver’s mobile phone chirped a third time, flashing with SHE 01 again.

‘He’s ready,’ he answered, his accent gone. ‘No chance of redemption.’

Bewildered, the Showman glanced at the driver, suddenly realising that he was the subject of their conversation. It appeared that the driver had not only grown in confidence, but stature. ‘Who are you?’

‘Why, your biggest fan.’

‘Huh?’

‘The one who’s been with you from the beginning. The one who holds your money bags. The one who whispers in the night: ‘Judas! Judas!’’

‘What?’

‘You know, the Devil in the detail.’

‘Is this a prank? Because if it is –’

‘You don’t know God, friend, but you definitely know me.’

Ignoring the red light, the driver pumped the accelerator and the limousine lurched forward into incoming traffic.

‘Are you crazy?!’ the Showman yelled, grabbing the door. ‘You’re going to kill us both!’

The driver laughed. ‘What? Are you afraid of death?’

Headlights, horns and squealing tyres filled the night air before the limousine exploded in metal and glass. Another car crashed into them and the Showman felt his entire body and soul ricochet.

Moments later, when everything came to a halt, he sat alone in the front seat. Shaken. Bloody. But breathing. The driver had vanished, and later no one admitted actually seeing such a man.

A woman in a tow truck uniform and cap peered down at the Showman through the smashed passenger’s window and whistled. ‘Praise the Lord! You’re alive. It looks like you’ve made a mess of yourself there,’ she said. ‘Hi, by the way. I’m Grace. How can I help you?’

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Lost Things, Izabel Smythe

Photo by Cosmic Timetraveler on *Unsplash*

Kathy heard Ted’s voice on the loud speaker as he drove past their front yard. He sounded proud to be a crier, reminding the residents of Asquith to switch on the TV at 11 o’clock for the yearly announcement of the winners under the Resettlement Scheme by the Interim Prime Minister.

Kathy sunk into the bathtub of milky water to muffle the sound of Ted’s grating voice. She had met Ted once, a year ago, in front of Woolies, after buying a can of Spam as he handed out voting pamphlets. “Vote for Ted, to stop the spread”, not that anyone was interested in what he was preaching. But now here he was, having won the contract for the Hornsby Ku-ring-gai community as the Town Crier. She wondered whether he had any competitors, now that Bridgette was gone. This wasn’t a 9 to 5 job just for anybody.

Bridgette, his predecessor, held that position for five years, before passing away. It was Ted who found Bridgette, soaking in the bathtub covered in blood, supposedly from a tremendous amount of coughing after being infected with the Virus. Kathy couldn’t believe Bridgette would have been that careless. If anyone was expected to survive this pandemic, it was Bridgette. She always greeted people by gesturing with her hands, chanting “Clean clean clean. Wash, wash wash”. She sent out compulsory monthly Zoom meetings to practise good hygiene, as mandated by the new law. The last physical meeting Bridgette organised was at Ted’s house, where she instructed on the etiquette and hygiene of purchasing fruits and vegetables from local home growers. Ted lived in Hornsby, the neighbouring town, which allowed her to introduce the intricacies of logistics.

Kathy held her breath under the water as Ted’s voice became distant. She lethargically came up for air as she slowly brushed away the Dettol water from her face, squeezing out the excess from her hair. Everything felt pointless, but she had to carry on. It was Bridgette who kept the town spirit going during the outbreak, who blissfully celebrated and engaged the community through emails, phone calls and chats. This would be the first year without Bridgette.

Kathy could hear Daniel stirring in bed next door. She quickly got up, covering her thin frame in a kimono wrap.

‘Daniel, you better hurry. The water is still warm.’

She opened the cupboard to put away the Dettol bottle that had been sitting open. Only a few drops were left, but they had to last several days. With quivering hands, she decided to angle the bottle, just a little, spilling a couple of drops into the bathtub. It would be a homage to Bridgette’s “Clean, clean, clean”, to make up for the recycled water Daniel would be stewing in.

‘Is it clean? No petals or eucalyptus leaves nonsense?’ he called out.

‘Only my period broth to rejuvenate the skin.’ She smirked, bending over to dry her hair with a towel. ‘Kidding okay, don’t waste it. Get in. I’ll make our breakfast soon.’

Daniel walked in shivering and naked, moving towards the bath.

‘What’s for breakfast this time?’ he asked as he slid into the tub. ‘It’s cold.’

‘It’ll be a surprise.’ She kissed Daniel on his wet forehead before walking away. ‘And clean up after you finish please.’

‘Here you go. The morning special. Baked beans with caramelised bananas.’

‘Fancy,’ Daniel said, sitting up straight on the sofa to take his plate. Kathy walked back into the kitchen to get water to share. She crumbled a couple of mints into a large glass, topping it with water from the urn.

She remembered someone once telling her that mint would become a weed, unless contained. Thankfully Kathy hadn’t listened, because it was now a source of food. Mint had managed to survive the frost of winter and the dreaded summer heat, unlike their parsleys and leeks which relied on water. Water was now too scarce to waste on gardens. The water looked so silky. Kathy caressed the glass against her face, brushing it across her lips, tempted to steal a sip. She heard Daniel calling, almost losing her grasp.

‘No need to wait for me, put it on. Let’s see the show before the Interim Prime Minister gives his speech for the deserving hopefuls.’ Taking her plate and water, she walked briskly back into the lounge. She sat down on the carpet, her legs stretched out in front of the TV.

The show used thousands of remote controlled drones to project 3D visual effects. Sometimes the Government allowed a solo performer to fill in 60 minutes of air time, like now. A young singer was setting up to sit alone with her guitar. She began to play as a blue spotlight shone above her head. Kathy recognised it straight away. It was called Our Town and Iris DeMent’s lyrics suited the young singer’s voice. It was so haunting. Kathy felt her heart tighten and the hairs on her slim arms spike. She reached out for Daniel’s hands, only to find his knee. Kathy placed her hands over the knee, resting her head on them, just listening to the voice wash over her. She felt the nostalgia for simple things as the singer’s voice echoed.

The song was playing in the background the night Daniel had surprised her by slipping a daisy diamond ring onto her finger and proposing. Kathy hadn’t suspected a thing earlier that morning, when Daniel had telephoned her at work. He wanted to go out for drinks at the Glenmore Hotel, to celebrate his win. A case he tirelessly worked on, including weekends, on behalf of a migrant family whose application for Australian citizenship was rejected by the Department of Immigration. She couldn’t be more proud of him then or now. It was what was left of his savings that was keeping them afloat, allowing for rations at Woolies when it was essential to go outside.

She missed going out, seeing places and going to the galleries. She missed hearing the background buzz that accompanied the drinking culture at Australia Square. Particularly when unwinding from sitting behind a glowing screen, like she used to, clattering words across a page, as the dictation filled her ears.

The music ended and the blue light once crowning the singer shifted and began to follow the footsteps of a figure walking towards the microphone. The face of the Interim Prime Minister filled their TV screen as he began to speak. Kathy had recalled him being much younger. She could tell in his voice, and see in his eyes, the tiredness which weighed heavily on his face, making it sag with dense lines. How quickly he had aged! He had only been in this position for less than a year. He thanked the two models who pushed the Lottery Machine onto the stage beside him. The machine started rolling, the envelopes inside ruffling theatrically like clothes in a washing machine. Kathy heard the names being announced one by one.

‘Daniel, you know, before, when the Resettlement Scheme began, you helped people with their application forms, to be in the draw to win the vaccine lottery. Were those cases difficult?’

‘Shhh! Shhh! I’m trying to listen.’ Daniel said as he tried to ignore her.

‘But I want to know. How is it decided? Who and when? I wonder what our chances are?’ she asked him inquisitively.

Daniel glanced at her impatiently, but said nothing and turned back to watch the lottery draw. Kathy stared at him angrily for a minute before erupting.

‘You never share anything with me. We never talk anymore.’

Daniel continued to sit silently as a smile crept across his face.

‘Didn’t you hear? We won baby! He picked our envelope, the Johnsons in Asquith from New South Wales. Did you not hear what he said?’

‘It’s been too long, I have forgotten what our surname sounds like,’ she replied as she stood up and headed towards the kitchen with their empty plates. Daniel followed her, standing by the kitchen bench with his arms folded, watching her irritably.

‘What’s wrong now?’

‘Nothing. I was merely curious. Aren’t you? Regardless of how many deaths, there are still millions of Australians. Where will we live? It’s been six or eight years now, and not a word from any of our friends or neighbours who have made it. Remember the Watsons next door?’

Kathy had wondered what happened to the Watson family after they were relocated across the border. She had asked them to check in via Zoom once settled into their place, to let her know everything was fine. Bridgette had texted her a month later about the Watsons because she hadn’t heard from them either. Soon afterwards, Bridgette set up a Zoom call with members of the community forum, to figure out why there was radio silence from all our relocated friends.

Bridgette had a nickname for the lottery after the second year, she called it “Border Feud”. It became a popular game played on Zoom, state against state, instead of footy. That was until The Project brought up the problematic Resettlement Scheme and the ongoing mockery. Both were seen as insults to Australia Day, scarring not only the Indigenous community but excluded families due to their refugee status.

Houses were graffitied with “L” when people were identified as winners. Then someone had the idea to call it “Will you accept this envelope?”, to reflect the ignorance of the Government in its failure to recognise the diversity of multiculturalism in Australia. If you don’t look white, you don’t qualify to win a vaccine.

A few years later, someone leaked live footage of elderly citizens being pushed and shoved into metal cages by military officials, because the nurses weren’t able to tick all the boxes to present the elderly with a vaccine.

As a distraction, Bridgette had set up a closed Zoom chat for the Hornsby Ku-ring-gai community, playing Dingo got my Vaccine. Kathy threw her name into the pool and Bridgette would call out player names randomly, until someone shouted “Dingo got my vaccine.”

Kathy remembered that it was around this time that the Prime Minister restructured the Government and altered some of the policies. Everything was to be locally owned and produced to support local communities and industries for economical regrowth.

The Police’s role also changed. They now worked at checkouts in stores, because not only was the Virus killing people at a faster rate, it was also contributing to people committing crimes.

The Prime Minister then remodelled the system, introducing heavy fines and strict curfews, but was swiftly voted out of parliament. People rallied for a system that would let them be free, allowing them to go back to jobs, holidays and the movies. They wanted a people’s Prime Minister.

That same year, Bridgette was appointed as the Hornsby Ku-ring-gai Town Crier. Kathy had then asked Bridgette what does this mean? Would she be allowed to finally catch a bus to a beach, to press her toes in the sand?

Bridgette could never keep a straight face, it wasn’t in her nature.

‘Oh you crack me up sometimes Kathy,’ Bridgette answered. One could only imagine that Bridgette’s house shook as she laughed at these types of questions. ‘Essentials only! Like shopping for food or medical needs.’ She reminded everyone.

Kathy felt that Bridgette’s laughter was more contagious than the Virus. Watching her laugh on screen was enough to make anyone laugh with hysteria. And she gives the best virtual hugs that smelt like hot chocolate dripped in churros. Kathy would kill for a hug or some churros right now.

Daniel’s stern voice rang in her ears.

‘We won’t be able to survive here Kathy. It’s not going to be enough. Give or take a couple of years, the Hornsby Ku-ring-gai community will become a cemetery. We have to keep moving forward. This is our last chance to live. A couple more hurdles, then we can truly start living again, like the old days.’

‘Maybe I want something different.’

‘I did it for us. A few years back before I lost the job. I wanted it to be a surprise. I thought you would be happy.’

‘I…I am. I’m grateful. It’s just people on Zoom have heard rumours about the other side. Bridgette didn’t believe that the Government is doing what they claim to – protecting people of Australia. She believed it to be a hoax. A ruse to lock us up in a facility, conduct a test and to study us like guinea pigs.’

‘Ridiculous! Stop misinterpreting things. This is not like any other virus scientists have previously encountered. There is no one vaccine for everyone. Remember Patient 1 in the UK who had an adverse reaction? This is the only solution the scientists have arrived at. Tailor a vaccine for each individual biochemistry. I don’t think that either of us would be of value if we developed Guillain-Barre Syndrome.’

‘So, what’s next for us then?’ she asked, worryingly looking up at him.

‘We wait for the knock on our door,’ he replied, stepping closer, gently placing a kiss on her head.

‘When will that be?’

‘Could be today, tomorrow, weeks, months. I really don’t know. We have to be ready, read books, do some practise questions from previous years and start building strength. They may show up anytime.’

She pushed away from him, picking up the notepad and pen from the kitchen bench.

‘I need to do our inventory,’ said Kathy as she opened the pantry.

Daniel strode back into the living room, leaving her alone in the kitchen.

She stood contemplating, staring blankly at the empty shelf. A few cans of baked beans, Spam and jelly mixes. What could she possibly make with that? Every morning, that jelly screamed at her. But it was just another non-essential item in her cupboard. The fridge had been turned off like their other electrical appliances, except for the TV and their laptop. These were occasionally turned on for essential updates and Zoom. Daniel was right. They couldn’t possibly continue living off herbs, bananas, mulberries and sour figs. They had used up almost all of their water supply in the tank, and with the start of summer, it would only become scarcer.

Her skin suddenly felt moist as tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt herself crumbling. Yes, Daniel was right. Being this close to hope was only playing on her fears. Kathy was frightened, uncertain about what their lottery win meant. They weren’t fit enough to pass any physical examination. Their bones were too weak and fragile. Being indoors also probably stunted their brains from lack of stimulation. They wouldn’t be able to comprehend any of the general questions in the quiz. How could they contribute to New Australis? What could she, a simple clerk, possibly give back to society in this new place? Daniel would be fine. He was a lawyer, then a resettlement adviser, and he could easily reinvent himself across the border, perhaps as a teacher. That’s an essential worker. But she, she knew, would become another one of those lost things. A part of the old world that doesn’t exist anymore. Unable to recognise who she once was.

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Thursday’s Alice, Glenn Kershaw

Fuck me dead!

I watched as the arse end of my bus lumbered into the rain like some fat elephant from a Disney movie. I’d been running hard and came to a stop on the edge of the cracked and lumpy pavement just in time to miss it. I shouldn’t have hung at Alice’s place but then you don’t say no to someone like Alice, not when it’s free.

I should have brought my raincoat. It was a real nice one I’d nicked from this shop at Chatswood. Funny thing, it was only that morning I’d stood on Liz’s front porch finishing off my coffee, watching the thick clouds come roiling over … “Roiling”, that’s a good word, isn’t it? That’s a Liz word. She used words like that, “Roiling”. The dark grey clouds came roiling over. I could have asked Liz about my raincoat, but I couldn’t, not really. See, she was out of it.

The rain was pouring down on me like a flood. My pony tail had come loose and the rain had plastered strands against my cheeks and shoulders. Fat drops ran down my neck and back. My jumper wasn’t any good against the rain. I was getting all soggy standing there. It was a good bet I’d end up smelling like a pair of damp socks by the time I got back to Liz’s place. Liz is my girlfriend.

So, I was left in a quandary, as Liz might say. I only knew the time for that one bus. Anyway, didn’t matter. There’d be another along soon enough, there had to be. Stood to reason. But how long would I have to wait? This stop didn’t have no shelter.

I squinted up and down the street through the rain. Down the road I saw head lights, dancing like butterflies, coming toward me and one or two orphan streetlights, that had come on due to the heavy clouds. It was only 10am but you’d swear it was evening. Up the road was the steady shine of some shops. Maybe there was a café. A hot coffee would go down a real treat.

Trouble was, if I went for a cuppa then missed the next bus—well, I didn’t want to be out all day as I had a job tonight. You see Liz’d be back on planet Earth by the time I got back and we could have a bit of fun till I had to go to work. She’s a bit of a pudding, is my Liz, but pretty good in bed. She’d been dead to the world when I left this morning as usual. That’s why I packed my backpack before I left, saved awkward questions.

What goes in my backpack depends on my work for the day. Some days I’m a Stop/Go man on a road gang for this friend from inside. This mate is a frequent flyer so the work isn’t too regular. I tell you, the going was bloody hot in summer and shitty cold in winter. For those days I made sandwiches and a flask of coffee. Other days, I labour for this builder mate I know. I don’t need lunch then as I get myself a steak sanger with the boys, so I just pack a couple of tinnies.

For my night work, I pack my tools. I don’t need no dinner. Today I’d packed ‘em just before I left, as I said. I’d told Liz last night I was getting up to go see a mate and I’d be home before I went out again.

My mate? Well, to be honest, that’s Alice. Alice is, well, she’s what they call in the trade a “professional”. I met her a month or two ago. She likes me, so I get it for free. I pops round her place Thursdays. It’s like this, Liz don’t work Thursdays and Wednesday night she downs a couple of bottles of red and tops them off with a dose of her favourite Columbian nose cleaner. That lot shoots her to the moon till around ten in the morning. Liz is pretty good in the sack, and she’s hungry for it all the time. But Alice is the best. It’s probably better if Liz didn’t know about Alice. Liz owns the house, understand?

I really like the way Alice calls me Billy. It suits me more than William or Will. ‘Will what?’ I’d always ask. With Liz, it’s “William”. I mean, fuck! Here’s the thing, in another year, two at best, people will start calling me Bill. Only natural. ‘See old Bill, over there in the corner. In his day he was something,’ they’d be saying. Old Bill. Old man Bill. There was no happy medium, as Liz would say, between Billy and Bill. To Liz, I was this ‘Charming Rogue.’ Liz is educated, and she’s got all these good words.

But the truth was, I was starting to feel as if I was wearing someone else’s hat. It didn’t fit. Like my ponytail. I had the long strands pulled together and running down my back. The pony’d been a great thing to pull in the girls when I was in my late teens and my twenties. Now, I was starting to feel like a 70’s rocker trying it on. Young girls liked young boys, if you know what I mean. But old girls don’t like old men.

‘Mutton dressed up as lamb,’ that’s what my old mum would’ve said. She said things like that from behind her thick makeup and the wine glass that was always in her hand, except when she was on her back. She’d said it to me the last time I saw her.

We were westies, with a houso over at Mt Druitt. Just me and mum and her one true love. It was like this, mum was in a deep, long-lasting love affair, that didn’t include the long line of “dads” who came and went. Most of them only spent an hour, some a day, the longest was a full week. That didn’t happen that often and not at all as she got old. But the one who stayed with her, was always there, came from the grog shop, usually in a dark coloured bottle, unless times were tough then it was a cardboard box.

‘Bottle-O first,’ she’d say. Then to the supermarket if there was money left.

I remember when I was ten, I made up this game. I tried to remember the men’s names and especially their faces. Sometimes I’d be outside playing when they came, during the week or weekend, didn’t make no difference. I’d look at them and try and fix their faces, and I’d ask them their names. I was interested in their surnames, to see if any matched mine. A lot of them were just “Smith” or “Jones” or they’d simply grunt my way as they went in. I asked my mum once if any of them were my dad, my real dad. She’d looked at me blankly for some time then said, ‘Dunno’, then filled her glass and switched on the box.

As mum aged, she put on weight, her face became all mottled, her legs looked like a set of purple railroad tracks and there were less dads. She relied more and more on her “Wages”, as she called it, from the government. Casks replaced the bottles.

Anyway, I was standing in the rain, weighing up my options, my backpack wet through and my tools weighing me down when this cop car drives up, its tyres pushing the streams of water out of the way. The copper in the passenger seat drops his window and examines me. I bent over a bit and peered in. It was only Micky and Davo. I’ve known them for years. They’re a couple of lightweights. Mick’s just a senior and him with a flash of silver in his hair now. Dave was a probational when we first met. Even back then you could tell where his mind was by the form guide peeping out of his top pocket.

‘Billy,’ Micky said.

I lent in, all smiles and friendly like. Micky was in the passenger seat, and I dripped on his uniform.

‘Micky, Davo,’ I said. ‘How’re you going, boys?’

‘Good, mate, good,’ Micky said. ‘What are you up to around here?’

I had to be careful what I said, so gave them the same story as I’d given Liz, ‘Visiting a mate.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep, that’s it.’

‘Only a jewellery store was knocked off a couple of blocks over,’ Micky said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about it?’

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I’m usually up on these things, but I’d not heard a dicky. Some young gun probably. Well, good luck to him.

‘Me? No.’ And that’s the truth. Only thing was, I thought about the tools in my backpack and I guess it must have shown on my face.

‘Who’s this mate?’ There was a look in Micky’s eyes I didn’t like.

I’m usually a steady guy but my heart started to pound a bit.

‘A mate,’ I said.

‘Aren’t you shacked up with some chick down at Lindfield?’ Davo asked. He was leaning towards me, his elbow on the armrest.

‘That’s right. Lovely lady she is. Took me in and we’re as happy as two love birds.’

‘So, who’s this mate of yours?’ Micky asked. He always was a bit of a dog with a bone.

‘Me?’ I replied.

‘I’m not talking to your shadow,’ Micky said. Which was funny as there weren’t any shadows today cause of the rain.

‘Just a mate,’ I said.

‘The name …’

I got a bit desperate and grabbed at a name.

‘Davo,’ I blurted, then cursed softly as I’d fucked up.

‘Davo?’ Micky said. ‘Hear that, Davo.’

Micky didn’t look at Davo but the grin on his mug was for him.

‘Billy’s been visiting his mate, Davo,’ Micky said. ‘And Billy, where does this Davo live?’

‘That way.’ I pointed vaguely in the direction of the houses down the street. Then I had an inspiration. ‘A couple of streets over.’

‘And the address?’ asked Micky.

‘Dunno.’ What could I say? ‘I just walks …’

‘How about we drive you there, get you out of the rain. Then this Davo mate of yours can confirm your alibi.’

‘Alibi?’ I said.

I knew where this was going. I’d done this particular walk before. Alice wouldn’t be too pleased to have cops stomping through her establishment, especially if she had a client. She was popular. And if the cops were looking for a mug to fit up over the robbery…

‘And when your mate, Davo’s, done that, we’ll drive you home.’

Liz, Dr Elisabeth Marsden, might be a bit ‘perturbed’, that’s a Liz word, at that. She, well, keep this to yourselves, Liz had some stuff at her place she shouldn’t have and wouldn’t want the cops to see. If I walked in with Micky and Dave in tow, that’d be the end. I’ve slept rough before and it wasn’t no joke, especially in winter.

‘How’s that sound?’ Micky asked. He had this big grin all over his face. ‘I’ll tell you what, first off, why don’t you show us what’s in your backpack, mate?’

Fuck me dead!

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No Longer Human, Jacob Morris

Kaitlyn Lynch could never quite work out what the deal was with men and their t-shirt wearing display of macho bravado during the coldest days. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to grab a jacket?’ she asked her fiancé as he emerged out of the front door.

‘Nah, I’ll be alright,’ said James Steele with confidence. ‘It’s not like we’re in England or anything. They say an Australian winter is like a British summer, you know.’

‘Oh, how about England for the honeymoon?’ she asked. ‘It’ll be spring there and we could stay in Brighton by the seaside.’ She was starting to feel a rush of excitement. This often happened when she thought about her future with James.

‘I wonder what the UK’s craft beers are like,’ he said.

As they headed towards her car, their neighbour walked past without so much as glancing up.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen that girl once without a phone in her hand,’ said James. ‘What’s her name again?’

‘Come on, really? She’s been living here a month now,’ Kaitlyn chuckled. ‘It’s Jessica, she’s trying to become an Instagram influencer.’

‘How does she even see where she’s walking? More eyes would do her wonders,’ James said.

They were headed to the cinema to catch the latest scary flick. Horror wasn’t James’ genre of choice by any stretch of the imagination, but Kaitlyn never complained about always going to different pubs and breweries so that he could try the newest craft beers. She only drank on occasion, but she was happy enough to accompany him knowing how much he enjoyed it.

‘So, guess what new beer the Harbour Bar brought out?’ James said as he climbed into the passenger seat. ‘An apple crumble dessert sour ale.’

‘Sounds wild,’ Kaitlyn said. ‘You want to go try it after the movie?’

‘You’re the best,’ said James with a grin that would give the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland a run for its money.

Kaitlyn awoke the next morning to find she was in bed alone. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and stood to her feet. She headed towards the kitchen and found James sitting by the table with his back towards her. His head was curled into his arms. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘James, what’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know,’ said James in a trembling voice. ‘I woke up like this.’ He turned around to face Kaitlyn and nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

Kaitlyn collapsed onto the lounge. She’d been to the hospital with James more times in the last week than ever in her whole life. She wanted to scream in frustration. Why? Why him? Tears were streaming down her face. It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t stand to see him so destroyed, and wished she could take some of his pain. The worst part was nobody had any concrete answers. The first doctor who inspected James tried to give them a standard doctor spiel about ‘an unidentified disfiguring virus’, but anyone could have seen he was just as confused as they were. It was James who ended up consoling Kaitlyn in that emergency room as she broke down in desperation. She’d asked the doctor when he’d be cured, but his usage of the word ‘if’ instead of ‘when’ in his response had been the last straw. ‘No, no,’ she had sobbed in despair. ‘We’re getting married in Autumn.’ Suddenly, another fear hit her harder than any of those preceding it. ‘Will our children look like this?’ Kaitlyn didn’t have any sort of degree in medicine, but she understood his response. The fancy medical terminology he hid behind basically meant he didn’t know. They were stuck in limbo.

The next morning Kaitlyn woke up to a strange sensation. As her eyes opened, she was staring at the ceiling but also saw darkness. She was laying on her back, but it felt like one of her eyes was against her pillow. Kaitlyn walked into the bathroom and the mirror revealed what she had become. Like him. There were numerous large eyes dotting her head. She counted ten. Her mouth had switched places with her nose, as if her face had been rearranged upside down. Her head was oval shaped, and her ears were no longer parallel. She approached James and when he saw her, he began to weep.

‘Oh god…oh no…I’m so…so sorry, Katie,’ he managed to say in between sobs.

‘I-It’s not your fault. I should have been more careful,’ Kaitlyn said. She tried to put on a brave face, but facial expressions were worthless now.

For the first month, she locked herself inside the house with James. Her mother dropped off essential groceries at their front door and they only spoke on the phone. Each time Kaitlyn was expecting a drop off, she double checked the door was locked and secured so that her mother couldn’t enter. Just because her world had been turned upside down didn’t mean she would allow anyone else to catch this…this…whatever this was.

In the months that followed, most of the world’s leaders acknowledged an emergency pandemic was upon them. They were calling it Severe Acute Appearance Disorder, or SAAD. Kaitlyn and James left the house on occasion for essentials, though each time the glares they received implied they were committing a crime against humanity. The initial horrified reactions had developed into a fearful recognition that usually involved the onlooker taking multiple steps backwards.

As Kaitlyn was walking home from the supermarket one afternoon, she thought of her future. They had decided to indefinitely postpone the wedding since medical specialists around the world were trying to develop a cure. It was a glimmer of hope. Something to hold onto that stopped her from falling into utter despair. The chance of a mundane life seemed so far fetched now. I’ll never get used to this, she thought, as she stared at the empty city street ahead. She walked past the multi-story Myer store. It was eerily quiet for a sunny afternoon in the city. A sight of bustling crowds within was a distant memory. The Silent Spring. She thought it could have been the title of one of those Lemony Snicket books she’d read growing up. Would she ever have children to read those to?

As Kaitlyn approached her front door, she noticed their neighbour, Jessica, taking the rubbish out. When they exchanged glances Kaitlyn smiled, forgetting this would portray a frown. The glare of disgust she received in return brought tears to her eyes.

Entering the house, she began wiping all of her eyes. She didn’t want James to revert back to feeling as guilty as he had before. She found him in the living room.

‘You can’t go outside alone anymore,’ James said, as sweat dripped down his forehead. He passed his phone to Kaitlyn.

As she focused ten eyes on the open article, she was mortified. The headline stated: ‘Fourteenth SAAD-positive victim killed by gunshot wounds in Sydney streets. Murderer/s still at large.’

Fuck, there goes another thousand. Jessica Crawford was glaring at her phone in frustration. There were only so many posts she could upload of herself barricaded in her house and the lack of originality was causing her followers to drop like flies. It wasn’t her fault this inconvenient virus had emerged out of nowhere to interfere with her career. It was a precarious time for Instagram influencers and her ungrateful followers should have taken this into account. Jessica first heard of a Severe Acute Appearance Disorder virus on the internet three months ago. Doctors claimed that contagion periods lasted two weeks, but even when a person wasn’t contagious anymore, their physical deformity was so far irreversible.

Legitimacy of the virus was revealed to her two months ago when she had witnessed her neighbours…no, what used to be her neighbours, leaving the house. Jessica was disgusted to find their faces no longer human. If she were to catch this virus then she could kiss her chances of becoming a successful influencer goodbye and she’d sooner die.

She was about to enter the supermarket one afternoon when she recognised a woman in front of her. She quickly lowered her head. In the rare occasions she left home, Jessica tried to avoid unnecessary contact with people to decrease her chances of catching the virus. Avoiding people and not checking her phone were the two rules she’d set for herself while shopping.

‘Hi, Jessica,’ the woman called out. ‘How are you?’

‘Not bad, I better get going though, I need…’

‘Oh! I was on the phone to your mum the other day,’ the woman said. ‘We had a FaceTime catch up. She’s still as stunning as ever. I bet she can’t wait for you to become a successful model too.’

‘You’d think so,’ Jessica said while sidestepping around. ‘I have to hurry along but it was good seeing you.’

After she left the supermarket, Jessica couldn’t rid her mind of the encounter. Thinking about her patronising mother made her blood boil. You just don’t have the look. Not everyone can, it’s a natural gift. That condescending tone was implanted into her memory. Sure, she apparently didn’t have the natural look, but an influencer could easily edit photos to cover for that. Once she gained a monumental number of followers, her mother would be forced to acknowledge her success. For that to happen, she couldn’t continue to lose followers. With that in mind she pulled out her phone and refreshed Instagram, too agitated to realise what she had just done.

Jessica was a five-minute walk away from her house when she heard a groan. She turned to find someone laying on the side of the road.

‘H-help me,’ the man croaked.

As she approached him, she suddenly jumped back at the sight of his grotesque face.

‘Car p-pulled up. They shot me twice. P-please,’ he begged.

‘Stay away,’ Jessica said, moving further back. The man was losing a lot of blood, but she was sure as shit not going to risk exposing herself.

‘P-please.’

She ran home.

The following day she noticed an article online that reported news of the victim she’d encountered. He’d died from his wounds, leaving behind a wife and children. The article also stated he had picked up the virus two months ago and was well beyond being contagious anymore. It wasn’t her fault he had decided to go outside alone when a group of murderers were out there, slaughtering people who had contracted SAAD. She also would’ve had to touch her phone to call an ambulance. She hadn’t been home to wash her hands yet, there was nothing she could have done.

A week later, Jessica woke up to a strange sensation.

For the first Summer since she could remember, Kaitlyn Lynch’s skin tone remained the same shade. The streets only accommodated those fortunate enough to have escaped the wrath of SAAD. Arrests were taking place by the day but the vicious cult of SAAD targeting murderers seemed to gain followers faster than they were apprehended. Police had their hands full with regular criminals and an emergence of underground organisations that were illegally manufacturing and distributing guns. Due to this, Kaitlyn and James were among the many who never left their homes. One afternoon as they were sitting in their living room, James noticed a person standing by the road.

‘Katie, look. It’s our neighbour,’ said James, peering out the window. ‘Oh damn, she’s caught it too.’

Kaitlyn jumped up in alarm. ‘She can’t be out there. What about the drive-bys?’

James shrugged. ‘Don’t know what the hell she’s thinking.’

Kaitlyn’s mind was racing in a panic. She’s been nothing but horrible to me. The look of contempt she gives me whenever she sees me…she’s still a human though. ‘I have to do something,’ Kaitlyn said, determined. ‘I’m going to go grab her and bring her inside.’

If she were going to do this, James couldn’t let her go alone. ‘Alright, let’s move quick,’ he said.

James took the lead with Kaitlyn crouched behind him. ‘You see anything suspicious?’ he asked. He was sure if they were quick, their chances of grabbing the girl and getting back without being seen were hugely in their favour. A detective would later inform him about the cult member who’d been regularly patrolling their street once word of a SAAD-positive Instagram influencer had surfaced.

‘I think we’re good,’ said Kaitlyn. ‘I can’t see past the bend though.’

‘It’s now or never. Stay behind me,’ James said. They ran towards Jessica, half crouched with their heads forward like ninjas. James grabbed Jessica’s arm. ‘What the hell are you doing? Come on, get inside.’

Jessica looked at him, her multiple eyes weary. ‘What’s the point?’ she asked. ‘Just let them come.’

James pulled her back towards the front door. She didn’t fight his grip nor stand her ground. She was a mindless vessel existing in spacetime, allowing the laws of motion and gravity to guide her movement. Kaitlyn opened the front door as James pulled Jessica towards it. Almost there.

There was a loud screech of tires. ‘There’s the fucking bitch!’ a voice bellowed.

They were a second away from the entrance, a force slammed into James as he tumbled inside the house with Jessica while the sound of gunfire echoed throughout the street.

There was blood on his shirt. He couldn’t feel pain. Not mine? He realised Kaitlyn had tackled them inside the door. ‘Katie!’ She was hit.

A marriage celebrant stood in James and Kaitlyn’s living room. His mask was wrapped tight around his face, but his words of unification were clear and powerful. Kaitlyn stood by James, leaning on him as he helped her stand. James held her left arm while her right forearm was aided by a crutch. Her leg cast displayed ‘James & Kaitlyn Steele 28.04.2021’ in permanent marker. Jessica stood behind as the only guest. Isolation rules were still in place, but the special occasion deserved this miniscule violation. Along with the trees of Autumn, Kaitlyn had let go. There was still no cure, but life was too short to let that control her. She locked eyes with James, and all of the facial disfiguration in the world couldn’t have concealed their happiness.

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